


Distance

by MythopoeticReality



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 15:01:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12135012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MythopoeticReality/pseuds/MythopoeticReality
Summary: It takes 8 days for a messenger to travel between Nargothrond and Vinyamar. Finrod hasn't heard from his cousin in months.





	Distance

_**The distance between Nargothrond and Vinyamar is Two-hundred and Twenty Miles** _

 

_Cousin,_

_Ai! Long has it been since last I have been able to write to you, and longer still since I have received any word from you. Ah, the responsibilities of a King have proven just as burdensome and wearying as they have rewarding. And to think! Just a few short years ago neither of us would have ever considered claiming such roles as our own. Certainly I would not. There are days that I look back and I wish…well, you can imagine I am sure, Turno, and though I wish and desire all I may things cannot return to as they once were. Better not to dwell yes?_

_In any case, it is news of  your well-being that is my chief purpose. I hope this letter finds you in good health and that all is well in Nevrast? I have heard…well I am shamed to say little of anything of the happenings in that region as of late, though I will admit that such oversight on my part is chiefly due to my mind being caught up in the affairs of my own realm. Know then that it is a hard thing for me to be separated from those for whom throughout my life I have considered my best and dearest friends, and that I hope to have word from you – or better still, to see you with my own eyes – soon. Perhaps we shall go riding again along the waters of Sirion. Until then, I send my warmest regards to both you and your sister._

_–_ _Findaráto_

 

_**It takes 8 days for a Messenger to Arrive there and back again** _

 

“What do you mean, ‘He wasn’t there?'” Finrod frowned, brows knitting together and his head cocking to the side as he tried to unravel this strange portent brought back to by the elf standing before him.

The messenger, A tall, dark-haired elf with a hawk-like cast to his face and a long-limbed grace, shifted between his feet. He was called Alarcon. His lips pressed together and his gaze darted first inward, then back towards the King of Nargothrond, as though attempting to determine that fact for himself. “He was not  _there_.  _No one_  was, my lord. Not in the hall, nor the city _, nor…_ Eru, I…I am not sure I saw a single living soul in all of Nevrast.”

No. No,  _that_ was impossible. An entire  _third_  of the house of Fingolfin – and countless Sindar besides! – did not just  _dissapear_  without word, nor reason. Finrod shook his head, as though trying to expel the idea from his mind by force, before slipping out from his chair and pushing himself away from his desk. Shadows flicked and danced across the glimmering walls in the light of the flames as Finrod paced across his study towards the fireplace. He leaned against the mantle, just staring downward.

The snap of dry kindling was all that there was.

The Messenger shuffled back, inching towards the door, and glancing between it and Finrod, unsure of weather he was to stay or go.

“How bad was the damage?” A rough, breathless murmur overtook Finrod’s voice as he turned his gaze back up to meet Alarcon’s.

“Damage, My lord?”

Finrod gave sharp, bitter bark, more sigh than laugh. “If an orcish Ambush were to sweep through here so quickly as to ensure that none escaped alive and no news reached –”

“No, no you misunderstand me. There was no sign of orcish attack. The city looked untouched, as if everyone just got up and… _left.”_

_“Left?”_

Silence fell again, as Finrod digested this. Shaking his head, he waved the messenger away, before once more pacing the space between the fireplace and his desk.  _As though everyone just got up and left._ For a passing moment, his eyes slid over the very walls of his own study, Their graceful arching lines, the carvings– scenes of Oromë’s hunt and Aulë’s workshops, Varda’s creation of the stars and Manwë’s eagles taking wing – tucked into the corners. The work of both elvish and dwarvish craft after Finrod received a vision from Ulmo, after he and his people…

Finrod stopped where he stood,

_No…_

No, he couldn’t possibly…

He would have  _said_ …

Cutting across the room, Finrod pushed out through the doorway and made his way off to his chambers to pack. He would be off by morning.

 

_**On horse, a Rider can arrive in Vinyamar in three days** _

 

****The roar of waves and the scent of salt sea air. These were now the only residents of Vinyamar. It was just as empty, just as abandoned as he had been told, the windows and towering arches in the stone buildings surrounding him now all blackened voids.

Finrod’s hair whipped back in the wind. His horse’s hooves crunched over the gravel of the road. The sky was a steel grey, rumbling with thunder and the promise of an incoming storm. His eyes drifted up the steps towards the stone terrace that overhung the sea, where the Hall stood.

_There_. That was where he needed to go. He did not know what it was he had come looking for, what confirmation of Turukáno’s well being, or evidence of his demise he’d hoped to find. Only…

Only that this was where he needed to go.

He turned his horse into an abandoned stables, sliding off and walking the beast through the dark, empty shell of a room. No light was here, and the hey had started to sprout and decay, but it would be dry, and his horse could rest for the night. With a softly murmured word of thanks, he left his horse in one of the stalls, shut the gate, and left.

The rain began to fall, and Finrod pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head. On and on, up and up, the domed roof and columns of the hall began to grow as he made his way nearer. His heart was thudding in his chest, and he dug his fingers into the folds of his cloak. What was it he would find? An empty house, long echoing corridors…and?

_Nothing more._ The words whispered at the back of Finrod’s mind, but he quickly pushed them asside. Even a corpse would be more welcome.

His feet did indeed echo off of the hall’s stone floors as he entered. Only months gone – it  _couldn’t_ have been longer – and already the sound felt unnatural here. His breath was too loud, even the thrum of his own heartbeat seemed almost as if it would  _echo_ here. Finrod walked the winding pathways and halls, the rain-drenched light that seeped through the windows illuminating his way.

And then he saw it. Bright as silver, it glinted just through an open doorway. Finrod stepped inside. Gauzy curtains, already moldering away fluttered against the open windows.  Rain battered at the walls outside, pooling in puddles across the marble floors. And upon the wall there hung a coat of mail, a helm, a sword, and a shield. A field of blue emblazoned with a white swan’s wing. Finrod’s hand stretched out, reaching, nearly touching…

He remembered himself at the last moment, snatching his fingers back. No. Whoever those things  _were_  meant for, they were not for him. He pushed on further into the room, nearly passing by an old wooden desk–

Before looking again, tracking backwards.

A peice of parchment, folded in on itself and marked with his name, _Findaráto._ It was written in Turgon’s hand.

He grabbed for the knife at his side, gashing at the wax seal in his haste to open the folds. Finrod’s eyes nearly devoured the message written inside.

_I knew you would come searching. Know that I am safe, know that you do not need to worry. May Eru prtotect and guide you._

_– Turukáno_


End file.
